


Reflections of Mortality

by isabeau, Miriam (isabeau)



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Fun with story structure, Gen, Really old fic (pre-2000)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-01-01
Updated: 2000-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-18 07:27:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/186426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isabeau/pseuds/isabeau, https://archiveofourown.org/users/isabeau/pseuds/Miriam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Buffy is dead, and Giles is not, and honestly this was more about the structure than the plot, because I am a big dorkface (and there is not very much plot)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reflections of Mortality

He cried her name one last time, but only echoes answered. The warm rain  
beat down relentlessly, soaking his clothes, streaming down his face like  
tears. His left hand dangled limply, semi-useless from a deep gash on the  
forearm, but the physical pain couldn't compete with the pain in his  
heart.

He'd failed.

He could still see her, the Slayer slain, lying dead on the stage of the  
Bronze-- dead, and it was his fault. She hadn't been prepared enough. "I  
wanted to protect you," he whispered into the darkness, "but I couldn't,  
could I?"

He didn't really want to admit that she could be gone-- he cared about her  
too much. She was the closest thing he had to a daughter. She wasn't  
just a duty any more. She was a friend.

And he didn't even know how to say goodbye.

Even if she were here, standing next to him, he wouldn't know what to say,  
how to apologise to her. He'd failed her. He'd looked away one too many  
times, and she'd died because of him, because he hadn't been there for  
her. She trusted him as the Watcher, and that had been her downfall.  
Couldn't she see that? A Slayer couldn't have friends. She had to work  
alone, unfettered. She had to be free.

Dammit.

A car window, slick with rain, mocked him with the reflection of his own  
old, lined, tired face; and, for a moment, Buffy's face, behind his,  
looking reproachful, pleading. He looked away. The eyes of his mirror  
image were dead, flat, full of pain. He would have to live with the  
memory of a reluctant Slayer, her short sweet intense life, and her  
death, for a long time, too long. That wasn't the worst, though. Her  
death reminded him of his own humanity, taunted him with the knowledge  
that he, too, would die.

That scared him more than he'd ever admit.

A lightning bolt lit the world, giving it the surreal quality of an old  
black-and-white movie, and in that timeless moment all of his failures  
confronted him, flashed before him: _you failed,_ they seemed to chant,  
 _you had a sacred duty and you neglected it, and then failed her, and now  
she's dead,_ and his mind echoed back, _she's dead, dead, dead_.

That scared him more than he'd ever admit.

Her death reminded him of his own humanity, taunted him with the knowledge  
that he, too, would die. That wasn't the worst, though. He would have to  
live with the memory of a reluctant Slayer, her short sweet intense life,  
and her death, for a long time, too long. The eyes of his mirror image  
were dead, flat, full of pain. He looked away. A car window, slick with  
rain, mocked him with the reflection of his own old, lined, tired face;  
and, for a moment, Buffy's face, behind his, looking reproachful,  
pleading.

Dammit.

She had to be free. She had to work alone, unfettered. A Slayer couldn't  
have friends. Couldn't she see that? She trusted him as the Watcher, and  
that had been her downfall. He'd looked away one too many times, and  
she'd died because of him, because he hadn't been there for her. He'd  
failed her.

Even if she were here, standing next to him, he wouldn't know what to say,  
how to apologise to her. And he didn't know how to say goodbye. She was  
a friend. She wasn't just a duty any more. She was the closest thing he  
had to a daughter. He cared about her too much-- he didn't want to admit  
that she could be gone.

"I wanted to protect you," he whispered into the darkness, "but I  
couldn't, could I?" She hadn't been prepared enough. He could still see  
her, the Slayer slain, lying dead on the stage of the Bronze-- dead, and  
it was his fault. He'd failed.

His left hand dangled limply, semi-useless from a deep gash on the  
forearm, but the physical pain couldn't compete with the pain in his  
heart. The warm rain beat down relentlessly, soaking his clothes,  
streaming down his face like tears. He cried her name one last time, but  
only echoes answered.

 _\--the end--_

  


* * *


End file.
